


In Your Eyes

by deansnuggles



Category: Fringe
Genre: Angst, Character POV, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansnuggles/pseuds/deansnuggles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia's thoughts during What Lies Below after Peter slips in the infected blood, continuing through the end of the episode. Rated "T" for a few swear words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A one-shot I had to write after watching What Lies Below for the millionth time. From Olivia's POV starting when Peter is trying to wash the infected blood off himself. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Originally posted on ff.net by moi.

 

**"In Your Eyes"**

This can't be happening. Not Peter. This isn't how it works - something crazy happens, we come in, follow a couple false leads, have a breakthrough, solve the case. Lather, rinse, repeat. We're the ones who fix it. We don't get infected ourselves.

But now I'm looking at Peter, and he's covered in blood - that man's blood, the infected blood - trying to wash it off, and all I can think is  _this isn't how it's supposed to be._  He can't be infected, he's  _Peter_ , he's my one constant, he's the one that keeps all this crazy shit in perspective. Suddenly I feel the room closing in on me, my heart is racing, the corners of my vision going blurry. I need air. I step out of the kitchenette and lean against the wall, forcing myself to breath. I can't remember the last time I was this scared. No, terrified. And out of nowhere, his earlier words play back in my head: "I thought that was the point of having people who care about you in your life. To have someone to talk to when you're scared." Peter is that person. Not Rachel. Peter's the one I go to when I'm unsure, when things don't make sense, when the world feels like it's pressing down on me. And he's always there. Even when I don't know I need him. He cares. About me. I guess he has for a while - he hasn't exactly tried to hide it - but I haven't let myself acknowledge it until now. Now that I might lose him.

I see him walk past out of the corner of my eye. The fear swells up in me again, but I push it down and rush after him. What is he ...

"Peter, no!"

"Can't wait any longer."

He's crouched over the dead man, rifling though his pockets. All I can see is blood. Blood on the floor, blood on his hands, blood on his arms. A drop on his face.

"Stop it! Get away from him now!"

"I got his blood on me. If I wasn't infected before, I probably am now."

Yes, but you don't know that for sure! My head is screaming at me to stop him,  _stopstopstopstop_  but I'm frozen in place.

"Peter, this is insane!"

"They're down there and we're up here. And they're not sending anybody else up."

His words sink in, and I realize he's right. We're on our own up here, totally at the mercy of those on the outside to find a solution before it's too late. We're powerless. This isn't how it's supposed to work...

"This is our last chance to figure out whatever it was that he came here to try and sell." He pulls something out of a pocket, a look of triumph plays across his face. "Rental car keys. Never take anything into a negotiation that can land you in jail. Always leave it in neutral territory."

Always the con man.

The next half-hour seems to last a lifetime, as we wait for news from Walter on what we're dealing with. I try to stay busy, checking on the others, doling out words of comfort as well as I can. Staying away from Peter. If I allow myself to think about him, to look at him, an icy fist closes around my heart, and all I want to do is be near him. Stand by him. Comfort him. Touch him. But that's not what I do. As always, I instead distance myself from him, try to act indifferent, unconcerned. He knows better, of course. He knows me better than I know myself sometimes. But still I keep up the charade. I have to - I don't know any other way, and right now it's all that's keeping me functioning.

Finally, I get the call. They don't know what it is or how to stop it yet, but they have a test. They can let the uninfected leave. They're bringing it up. I separate the group in two, taking the beginning of the alphabet myself. As we get the group organized for testing, Peter walks in.

"How we doing in here"

"We're just getting started."

I give him a reassuring smile, but as soon as he turns away my eyes flick back to him worriedly. As he waits in line I try to keep myself focused away from him. When Astrid says we're next, I can't keep my mask on anymore. He makes eye contact with me, and as always we say more without words than we ever do out loud.  _"I'm sorry"; "It's ok"; "I'm worried"; "I know."_ He lets me go first, but I could care less about my results. I've always been less than concerned about my own safety. I discretely wipe some wetness from the corner of my eye as the test is being done. There are so many emotions running through me right now that I'm having trouble holding it together - a rare condition for me. When Walter says I'm fine, I try to smile back at him but I can barely make my facial muscles move. My eyes flick to Peter again as I step back, feeling myself run my hand over my hair. Inwardly I curse - it's my biggest tell ... Peter knows it means I'm upset. So much for staying in control.

As he steps forward, my head is pleading with a god I don't believe in:  _please don't take him from me. please don't take him. please. please._ It becomes a mantra as we wait for the test to finish, for what seems like a lifetime to pass. Walter is ridiculously composed for someone about to find out if their son is dying from an unknown and fatal disease, but I guess he's in full scientist mode right now. His humanity is always furthest away when he is deep in an experiment. My eyes flick back and forth from the tube to Peter, tube to Peter. When it turns that wonderful, heavenly shade of amber, my whole body screams in relief. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding; wipe my eye discreetly with the back of my hand. As always, I am unable to outwardly show how happy I am - I want to throw myself into his arms and hold him and never let go, but I can't. It's not appropriate and it's not me. Instead we share a look of  _"thank god that's over with"_  and I follow him as he moves the first group towards the stairs. I don't think I'm capable of speech quite yet.

As we wait to leave the building, I feel my hand up in my hair again - I just want this to be over with. Even though we've been given the all clear, I can't get rid of the dread that's settled in the pit of my stomach. I need to go home and have a drink, or three. Or twelve. Drown in it and not think about Peter or diseases or death and loss. It's finally my turn to walk out the door, and as they let me through I finally allow myself to turn and smile at him, my relief pushing away the dread, but it's short lived. As soon as I look up at him I see it. Blood. A nosebleed. Like the others. The infected ones. The dead.  _No. Nononononononono._  The CDC workers stop him with their hands on his chest, and he looks at me, eyes pleading, and the icy fist grabs me again as I feel the floor fall out from under me.

"I just have to get outside..." The voice is panicked, breathless, and doesn't sound like him. My eyes widen as veins darken over his face and he lunges at me, grabbing. I step back, horrified and terrified as he becomes more manic and the CDC workers pull him away from me. "I just have to get outside!" I take a step forward, my heart and my mind pulling me in warring directions, towards Peter but away from the danger. They manage to secure him inside, closing and locking the glass doors, but he comes up to the glass, up to me, pain and confusion and panic and anger all fighting for dominance on his face. Something is wrong, and it's not just the obvious.

"Olivia, please! Please, you've got to open this door."

"Peter, I can't. You know that."

It's clear to me now that reasoning with him isn't going to accomplish anything. My words don't even register with him.

"Look at me. Just look at me. I'm fine! Just look at me."

Blood is trickling out of his nose, his eyes are huge and bloodshot, body covered in sweat. Oh yeah, just fine.

"Peter..." I hear my voice break. My eyes are welling up and I can't cry, I can't cry goddammit I'm a federal agent and I am Olivia Dunham and I  _don't cry_.

"Olivia..." He pleads with my name, and it pierces me to the core, and I think I'm going to lose control until he says it a second time. "Olivia!" This time he screams it, in fury and frustration, and it's not him. Whatever this is, whatever has infected him has somehow possessed him. This isn't my Peter.

As McFadden tells me that they are planning on eradicating the disease by killing everyone still in the building, it's enough to push me into what I do best - turning terror into anger and determination. I won't let him kill those people. There's always another way, and I will find it. I won't let Peter die at the hands of military exterminators. No way. Walter will find a cure.

As I expected, Walter and Astrid refuse to leave the building. Now all three of them are in danger. I spend the next few minutes walking in circles, mind and heart racing. How the hell am I going to fix this? My phone rings again. Astrid. Walter found a cure. My hand shakes as I write down the formula, the anger and fear fighting for control give a little of their ground to hope.

It doesn't last long. That bastard McFadden doesn't want to hear it. When Broyles offers up a compromise - knock-out gas until the cure can be synthesized - I volunteer to go back in and turn the ventilation system on. I don't even hesitate - it's either me, or no one. And I am not going to let these people die.

I grab a walkie-talkie and a map, trying not to look at the building where Peter is trying to break the glass windows with a fire extinguisher. I can't let myself think about him right now.

As I run through the basement of the building, I reach the parking garage and have to stop to check my map. Suddenly, I'm knocked off my feet as a large object barrels into me. I gasp and grab for my gun, and as I turn I see my attacker: Peter.  _Oh god. No. This isn't happening._  I aim my gun at him and back away. He's ranting, paranoid, but I'm not registering what he's saying, only that my gun isn't stopping him from closing in on me. I'm frozen in indecision, I can't shoot him, but I can't stop him any other way.

I've waited too long - he knocks the gun from my hands and throws me against the hood of a car. I'm not as fragile as I look, though, and I have a lot of experience fighting guys twice my size. We struggle, I twist a joint and he shoves me against the wall, my gun fires at the ceiling with the impact. He knocks the gun out of my hand, and as it slides across the floor it distracts him long enough for me to knee him in the groin with all my strength. I throw myself across the floor towards my gun, not knowing what I'm going to do with it but knowing I can't let him get to it first.

My knee must have missed it's target, or the disease is blocking his pain receptors, because just when I grab the gun his boot comes down on my arm.  _Fuck fuckfuckfuck._ I'm gasping for air, panicking, as he grabs the gun and aims it at me. Then, for just a second, his eyes clear. Anyone else would have missed it, but I've spent 18 months with those eyes and I know. "Stay down," he says, in the closest thing to his own voice I've heard since I left the building. He walks away.  _He walked away. I'm alive. I'm ok._  Relief pours through me once more, as I realize that Peter must have retained just enough control over the disease to keep from shooting me. We might still make it.

I jump up, pushing the pain and fatigue and terror from my mind once more, and run to the utility room. I flick the switch, then collapse on the floor, head in my hands. It's out of my control now. I did my part. And as I sit against the wall taking shuddering breaths, I feel my head going foggy. My last thought is  _we did it._

_\--------_

He opens his eyes, and I'm the first thing he sees. A million thoughts and emotions are running through me, but I keep most of them off my face. Pain, embarrassment, relief, hope, fear ... and something else. Something I won't let myself label, but that has made it's home behind my ribcage, fluttering and warm. Something I haven't felt in over a year. Something I didn't know I could feel again. Amazing and terrifying and wonderful and impossible, all at once. I have to contain my hands in my pockets because it's the only way I can keep from touching him. My body is screaming at me to reach out to him, touch his chest, wipe his forehead, make sure he's real. But I don't.

He turns his head to look at me, piercing me again with those eyes, as he always does. "Feeling better?" My voice is surprisingly steady. Now that the danger has passed the familiar masks come more easily. "Oliv-" his voice breaks and he clears his throat. He looks up at me for another eternal second. "I'm sorry." I shake my head once, quickly, feel the corner of my mouth quirk up in a ghost of a smile. His apology is the last thing I need right now. "You weren't yourself." The intensity of his gaze is almost too much, but I can't break it. I never can. "It's lucky for me that you were." As his words sink in, he continues to stare into my eyes, and I know my masks aren't keeping him out. I don't know what he sees in them. I don't know what I see in his. But he's back now. He's back, and we have been given another chance to figure it out.


End file.
